


The Sinking Man

by badlifechoices



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: I'm Sorry, Jason needs a hug, M/M, Sad, from his bat, pain without plot, so if you're into this kind of thing, this is just pain, this should be a tag, you might like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:50:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6393331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badlifechoices/pseuds/badlifechoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The breath he’s been holding shudders past his lips and he feels himself relaxing, as though this voice alone is enough to chase away the fear. When he speaks his voice is rough, pain pulling at the words but to his relief it sounds less desperate than he feels. “Hey Bruce.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sinking Man

The world is spinning around him. The buildings around him, the traffic lights, everything is blurring into a whirlwind of colours and shapes. His fingers scrape alongside the wall to his left, trying desperately to support his stumbling feet. The darkness of the narrow alley welcomes him with open arms. The rushing of his blood in his ears does nothing to drown out the noise of the busy streets, nor the howling of the sirens. Yet somehow the familiar sounds of this city he once called home are more comforting than the silence of his mind. He doesn’t make it very far, legs giving out underneath him after only a few steps. When his knees hit the pavement he barely notices the dull pain of the impact. It’s overshadowed by the fire tearing at his insides. He crawls the next few metres, farther into the shadows until he’s covering under a rusty steel fire escape. His back comes to rest against the wall that can’t protect him from the falling rain. The ice cold water is drenching his clothes, makes his hair stick to the skin of his forehead. Of course it’s raining, Gotham is nothing but willing to provide a befitting scenery for every morbid occasion. He tips his head back, glances up at the dark sky. There are no stars, there are never stars, not with the light pollution and the heavy clouds looming overhead but if he squints he can just imagine what they’d look like: pale, lost spots of light struggling not to be swallowed by the endless void surrounding them.

He almost hopes to spot the signal in the sky, the familiar shape of the bat that so often shelters this city underneath its wing and yet tonight, there’s nothing but blackness. Which means that there will be no shadow swooping down from the rooftops, no one watching over him. His hand clutches his side, attempting to soothe the red hot pain but to no avail. When he pulls it back his fingers are sticky, dark with blood. He huffs out a laugh around the bitterness in his throat. “Was my last good jacket.” He mutters to himself though the words are not enough to fight off the silence at the edges of his mind. He knows this silence, dreads it with every fibre of his being. The soft patter of the rain on the pavement seeps into his mind, like a lullaby trying to lure him away from his surroundings, to let down his guard. He rubs a hand over his face and tastes blood and bile on his lips. The corners of his lips twitch. He wants to laugh at the irony of it all. Of all the places he could end up, it had to be here. He was born a Gotham street rat, so he’s doomed to die as one too, he supposes. Roy would probably say something about history repeating itself, about things always happening the way they happened before, some crap about fate. Jason never considered himself someone who believes in stuff like fate.

 _He_ found you here once before, his mind supplies, _he_ can find you again. But Jason knows for certain that this time he won’t be found. This time it’s the end, once and for all. And how he’s longing to see that familiar shape, to hear the rustling of the cape, the almost inaudible sound of footfalls echoing from the walls around them. How he longs to hear that voice, the low rasp that always makes his chest ache and fills his heart with bittersweet nostalgia. But Bruce has no idea he’s even in town, Bruce probably thinks he’s miles and miles away. And even if he knew, why would he come if all Jason has done is push him away? There’s a lot of things he doesn’t regret, a lot of things he’d do the same way over if he got the chance but then again maybe he regrets not giving him that second chance when there was still time. He knew – knows that Bruce would’ve never been able to keep that promise he made, to fix things, to help him but maybe they could’ve had something. Something other than their sporadic teamwork and something other than the one-night stands that always ended with Bruce asking him to _stay_.

 He never stayed, never took that chance because he was too scared to take that leap of faith.

Almost without his consent his hand digs into his pocket, pulls out the burn phone that only has one single number saved in it. His finger hovers over the screen, uncertain, hesitating, trembling more than it should. The cold rain drapes itself like a blanket over his shoulders, a wonderful numbness seeping into his skin and easing the burning pain. He wraps his arm around himself and pulls his knees up to his chest. It doesn’t help against the cold, against the fear bubbling up in his chest. His finger hits the button and he presses the phone against his ear. Listening to the dialling tone, he doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, doesn’t know what he’s expecting. What is he hoping to hear? What does he think he can achieve? Bruce probably won’t pick up anyway, he’s probably busy…

“Jason.”

The familiar voice makes him shiver and his breath catches in his lungs. Jason doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to reply. He wants to hang up but he doesn’t, something forces him to just hang on, waiting for something, anything.

“Jason? Are you alright?”

The breath he’s been holding shudders past his lips and he feels himself relaxing, as though this voice alone is enough to chase away the fear. When he speaks his voice is rough, pain pulling at the words but to his relief it sounds less desperate than he feels. “Hey Bruce.”

The line is silent for a moment before the other speaks again. “Jason, you never call. Is everything okay?” He asks again and the concern is so obvious in his tone, Jason isn’t sure whether he wants to cry or laugh. In any other situation he would’ve considered this entire thing utterly ridiculous, would’ve cracked a joke, made a sarcastic remark. But the humour is stuck in his throat and he can feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He curses himself for his weakness, tries to swallow it down as though he fears that Bruce might sense it somehow. Not that it matters now.

“I-“ He considers asking him just to keep talking, about nothing in particular. Bruce can be discussing the weather for all he cares, hell, even one of his endless lectures would do the trick. He just needs to hear that voice, just needs to feel that maybe he isn’t entirely alone right now. Just once he longs for the illusion that he matters, that there is someone who cares about him, who will mourn for him. But he can’t say it, can’t voice the words burning on his tongue. “Tell Alfred I’m sorry. Won’t be coming for dinner anytime soon.” A smile flits over his lips at the thought of the faithful butler, the only one who will still invite him to the manor. “Shame, really, I kinda miss his cooking.”

Jason hears the rustling of cloth over the line, can hear Bruce breathing loudly. “Jason.” You say my name awfully often today, he thinks quietly. “Jason where are you? What’s wrong?” And he can almost see it, the furrow of Bruce’s brows, the worry etched into his features and for some reason it makes a strange warmth curl around his chest.

He should be hanging up instead of clinging to the phone like a drowning man would to a life racket. A wave of nausea crushes into him and he closes his eyes, sucks in the cold night air before he speaks again. “I fucked up B. Shoulda seen it coming, guess I got cocky…” He’s interrupted by a coughing fit, lungs burning and the metallic taste of blood invading his mouth.

“Jason!” Bruce sounds almost panicked now, well, the Bruce kind of panic which most people wouldn’t even recognise as anything other than calm. People who don’t know him, Jason thinks. Because sometimes he prides himself that no one knows the both of them, Bruce Wayne and the Batman, as well as he does. And maybe that says something about how much Jason _needs_ him that he can read in every narrow of his eyes, every gesture and change of his voice. He pushes the thought aside. “Jay. Where are you? I’m coming to get you.” It’s an order, his voice more Batman than Bruce and Jason can’t help but chuckle dryly.

“It’s okay B.” Because they both know he won’t get there in time. Even if they’re in the same city it’s still so far away and he can already feel the cold creeping up his spine.

Bruce doesn’t listen to him. “I’ll be there.” He just promises. And maybe it’s the darkness that’s closing in on his conscious, maybe it’s that name that Bruce hasn’t used in years or maybe it’s just the tone of that voice that breaks him.

Jason feels a treacherous tear slip down his cheek, feels his body shiver as his fingers cling to the fabric of his blood soaked leather jacket. “B…” He can’t keep his voice steady, the words tumbling from his lips. “B I just… I’m sorry.” He can’t say what exactly he’s sorry for. Nothing and everything. He’s sorry for not being different, for not being able to do this right, sorry for being fucked up. Or maybe he’s just sorry because he can’t tell Bruce what he wants to say. The words used to come easily to him, back when he was still young and believed that there really was some good in this world. Back when he thought that if he was just good enough, he could be Robin forever.

I love you, he used to say. I forgive you, he once said. I need you, he wants to say. “I’m scared.” He whispers instead and suddenly he feels like a child again. Like he’s ten all over again, lost and abandoned, searching for a light in this shithole of a world that did nothing but disappoint him and blame him for being born in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“It’s alright Jay.” Bruce says softly, the words sounding so far away all of a sudden. There is more, more words but Jason can’t decipher them anymore. He feels his breathing growing shallow, the cold finally spreading through his entire body. He sinks against the wall in his back, listening to Bruce’s voice that is only pulling him further down into the darkness.

It has to be the blood loss that is making him hallucinate but he thinks he can feel fingers brush against his cheek. Can feel a gentle warmth enveloping him like a pair of arms cradling his broken form. The smile lingers on his lips. “B…”

When the mobile slips from his grasp he doesn’t hear it hit the ground.

**Author's Note:**

> alright so i'm still working on the plot for that longer batman vs superman brujay thing i promised and this kind of happened. inspired by this one amazing fanart i saw somewhere and that i will link here once i find it again!


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